Page 127 of The Seven Sisters
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Two afternoons later, as Bel sat at a table with the other women in the Igreja da Glória sticking the small triangles of soapstone onto the mesh netting, she thought how the hours she spent in the cool church had provided her with much-needed moments of quiet contemplation. The women – even though theywerewomen and well practised at chatter amongst themselves – did not speak more than they needed to, simply concentrating instead on their joint task. There was a mutual feeling of harmony and peace.
Heloise, the friend she had once used as an alibi when she’d visited Laurent, was sitting next to her at the trestle table. Bel noticed she was busy writing something on the back of her soapstone triangle. Bel leant over and studied it.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘I am writing down the names of my family. And also that of my sweetheart. Then they will be up on Corcovado Mountain and part of theCristoforever. Many of the women do this, Izabela.’
‘What a beautiful idea,’ sighed Bel, looking sadly at the names of Heloise’s mother, her father, her brothers and sisters . . . and then the name of her sweetheart. Bel looked down at her own tile – just about to be covered in glue – and knew that one precious member of her family would not be on this earth for much longer, and would never see theCristofinished. Her eyes filled with involuntary tears.
‘When you are done with it, may I borrow your pen?’ she asked Heloise.
‘Of course.’
When Heloise handed the pen to her, Bel wrote out the name of her beloved mother, then her father and then her own name. Her pen hovered below the names, but try as she might, she could not bring herself to write the name of her husband.
Testing the ink to see if it was dry, Bel applied the thick glue to the tile and placed it on the netting. As she did so, the woman in charge told them it was time for their break, and she watched as the other volunteers stood up from the trestle benches. Instinctively, she grabbed a soapstone triangle from the pile in the centre of the table and secreted it surreptitiously in her small handbag, which lay at her feet under the table. Standing up, she made her way over to the group of women who were drinking coffee at the back of the church.
Refusing the cup of coffee offered to her by the maid, she turned to the woman in charge.
‘Senhora, forgive me, but I’m afraid I must leave now.’
‘Of course. The committee is only grateful for any help you can offer, Senhora Aires Cabral. Please write your name down on the rota as usual, to tell us when you are free to come back.’
‘Senhora, that will not be possible for some time, I’m afraid. My mother is seriously ill and I must be there for her in her final days,’ Bel explained.
‘I understand. Please accept my sympathy.’ The woman reached out a hand to touch her shoulder.
‘Thank you.’
Bel left the church and hurried to Jorge, who was waiting for her in the car outside. Climbing into the back, she directed him to Madame Duchaine’s in Ipanema.
Fifteen minutes later they arrived, and she asked him to return for her at six o’clock. She walked towards the front door of the salon and pretended to press the bell, until, with her head surreptitiously cocked to the left, she saw Jorge move the car off along the road. She waited on the doorstep for two or three minutes before leaving it, and then hurried as fast as she could along the street to Laurent’s apartment.
Today, given it was the last time she would see him for perhaps two months, she did not wish to waste any time discussing new-season gowns with her dressmaker. She knew her actions would mean there was no alibi for her lost hours, but as Bel mounted the many steps to Laurent’s apartment, for the first time, neither did she care.
‘Chérie, you are so pale! Come in quickly and let me make you something to drink,’ Laurent said as she arrived at his front door, panting from exertion and shaky with nerves. She allowed him to lead her inside and sit her down.
‘Water, please,’ she murmured, feeling suddenly faint. As Laurent went to fetch some, Bel lowered her head onto her knees to try and relieve the dizziness.
‘Are you unwell?’
‘No . . . I will be fine,’ she said as she took the water from him and drank it quickly.
‘Bel, what has happened?’ He sat down next to her and took her hands in his.
‘I . . . have something to tell you.’
‘What is it?’
‘My mother has asked to go to our farm in the mountains for her final days and I must go with her,’ she blurted out. Then as all the tension of the past few weeks gathered within her, she began to sob. ‘I’m sorry, Laurent, but I have no choice. My mother needs me. I hope you can forgive me and understand why I must leave Rio for a time.’
‘Bel, what do you take me for? Ofcourseyou must go to be with your mother. Why did you think I would be angry?’ he asked her gently.
‘Because . . . because you’ve told me you’re only in Rio for me and now I’m leaving.’ She looked at him despairingly.
‘Well, it is not ideal, I agree. But if you want to know the truth, the fact that you will no longer be sharing a bed with your husband, even ifIam unable to set eyes on you for a while, is actually preferable,’ he comforted her. ‘I can feel for that time at least that you are truly mine. Surely we can write? I can send letters to the farm, perhaps addressed to your maid?’
